


Separately and Together

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fic, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smiled hopefully at her. "Be my alibi?"</p><p>Peter goes out of town, and Neal and Elizabeth find their own rhythm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Separately and Together

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Dragonfly and mergatrude for beta. &lt;3

Apparently Satchmo wanted to sniff every lamppost in Vinegar Hill. Since Neal was holding the leash—a small irony that escaped no one but Satchmo himself—he fell behind a little, watching Peter and Elizabeth stroll hand in hand ahead of him down the sidewalk toward the river. The perfect married couple.

It was still new, the relationship between the three of them, still finding its feet. In bed, everything was heated and natural, generous and passionate, but outside the bedroom Neal sometimes felt like a guest or an alien visitor from outer space who'd crashed into their townhouse and upended their lives. At odd moments, they seemed startled by his presence, not quite sure what to do with him or how to incorporate him into their routines. But they wanted him there, he had no doubt about that—and it was getting better. It would keep getting better. And after all, he was the master of Fake It Till You Make It.

"Neal?" They'd stopped, and Peter was standing sideways, looking back. "When you're done casing the neighborhood, I have to tell you something."

"Come on," said Neal, interrupting Satchmo's communion with a fire hydrant. "You can check the local dog gossip tomorrow." Perhaps Peter was finally going to reveal whatever Hughes had told him that afternoon. He'd been obviously mulling ever since, but had denied anything was wrong.

"I have to go to Quantico for two days next week," he said now, when Neal and Satchmo caught up. "I'm giving a couple of lectures, one first thing Friday morning and one on Saturday morning, so I'm going to be away from Thursday night. While I'm gone, you should probably stick close to June's place. You know if anyone steals or forges anything, you'll be the first person they suspect." He leaned his head to the side and gave Neal an apologetic grimace.

"Probably the only person," said Neal. That was to be expected. And it wasn't like he didn't enjoy spending time alone, or with Mozzie, at June's, but it still felt wrong. These days his radius was almost more theory than practice, and the Marshals never called anymore if he was at Peter and Elizabeth's. "Can't you tell Hughes that you've deputized Elizabeth to keep an eye on me?" He smiled hopefully at her. "Be my alibi?"

"Any time," she said promptly, taking his hand in both of hers. "You know that." She looked at Peter. "Will Hughes be okay with it?"

"I'm not sure about the deputizing part," said Peter, "but I think I can convince him of the rest."

Neal relaxed. "Thank you." He wanted to hug Elizabeth right there, but he knew that too overt an expression of relief would make them fuss. Anyway, Satchmo was tugging at his leash. "It's a date," he said instead. "I'll cook.

A shadow crossed Elizabeth's face, complicating her smile, so maybe even that was too much. Neal resolved to try harder to make himself at home in their home. Perhaps he could take lessons from Satchmo.

 

*

 

At JFK, Neal leaned forward from the backseat to kiss Peter goodbye, just a quick discreet peck on the lips. "Try to stay out of trouble," said Peter, and the crinkles around his eyes deepened.

"You too." Neal smiled back, hiding how much he hated saying goodbye even if it was only for a couple of days. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Peter laughed, kissed Elizabeth and then checked his watch and started hustling. As he disappeared with his overnight bag into the throng of travelers and well wishers, Neal got out of the back and moved into his seat. "And then there were two."

"That sounds like we're being picked off, one by one, in a horror movie," said Elizabeth lightly. "I think I'll pass, if you don't mind." She sighed, gave him a slightly forced smile and started the car. "I hate goodbyes."

"I know what you mean." Neal watched her hands move on the steering wheel. "We'll just have to console each other in his absence." That wasn't quite right—neither of them were consolation prizes—so he added quickly, "I was thinking salmon. What do you say?"

 

*

 

Neal cooked salmon steaks and potato rosti, and made a salad. Elizabeth leaned against the counter, glass of chardonnay in hand, and they talked about the Met and MoMA and the Channing, and other galleries she'd used as venues. Neal felt like they were in a stage play about a suburban couple. It was surreal, as if, without Peter, they had to start again from the beginning.

When the conversation paused, he said, "Tell me about your honeymoon," and Elizabeth laughed and poured them each another glass of wine, and told him about the family who owned the hotel where they stayed in Greece. "I think they were more enthusiastic about our honeymoon than we were," she said. "Peter kept getting flustered and knocking things over in the lobby, and we had to keep really quiet when we were having sex so they wouldn't hear."

"That doesn't sound ideal," said Neal, grinning.

Elizabeth smirked. "It was an interesting challenge. We managed."

Given Elizabeth was one of the more vocal women Neal had slept with in his life, he was inclined to doubt her. He rescued the rosti from the pan and moved to stand in front of her, partly to grab a couple of plates from the cabinet, but mostly to steal a kiss. She tasted of wine, and her tongue slid teasingly into his mouth. He broke away slowly and leaned his forehead against hers, taking a moment to catch his breath. "You're an incredible woman, Elizabeth Burke."

"I know." She put her glass aside and slid her arms around his waist. "You're pretty incredible yourself, you know. How did we all get so lucky?"

"Fate. Destiny. The stars aligned." Neal generally tried not to think about the ways it could have not worked out; it seemed like asking for trouble. Even now, his parole made their situation precarious, however much they all wanted it.

"Probably not karma, though." Elizabeth butted her forehead against his shoulder. "Um, if I remember rightly, you promised me salmon."

They ate at the dining table, with Satchmo on the floor between them, and swapped stories about Peter that were really stories about themselves. Elizabeth dished the dirt on how she and Peter had got together and the early years of their marriage, and Neal revealed how much he'd learned about the Burkes when Peter was chasing him the first time around, and the embarrassingly short amount of time it had taken to fall for him, once the parole arrangement was in place.

"Imagine if you hadn't liked me too," said Elizabeth, as if she hadn't considered it before. "It could so easily have gone so horribly wrong."

"Loved," corrected Neal. He touched his wineglass to hers. "To Fate."

Her smile softened. "To Fate."

 

*

 

When Neal started clearing the table after dinner, Elizabeth said, "If you're okay to clean up, I've got some emails I need to send."

The evening so far had been somewhere between a date and two people sharing a quiet evening at home. If Elizabeth wanted more of the latter, Neal could roll with that. He balanced the wineglasses on the stacked plates. "You want coffee?"

"Tea, please." She cocked her head at him, then said, "Wait a minute. You, um—"

Neal paused halfway to the kitchen door and raised his eyebrows at her. Did he have something on his face? Was she going to explain again how the latch on the dishwasher was a little sticky and needed coaxing sometimes?

She came over, stood on tiptoe beside him and, without disturbing the dishes, gave him a warm kiss on the corner of his mouth. "—looked like you needed kissing," she finished, stepping back.

He kept his nod businesslike. "Good thing you're here to take care of that."

"Isn't it just?" She collected her laptop from the sideboard and headed to the living room, calling for Satch to follow.

Neal finished cleaning up, made tea for her and coffee for himself, and sat on the floor next to Satchmo, with his back against the other end of the couch from Elizabeth. He was reading Calvino, but he kept getting distracted by the sound of Elizabeth's stop-and-start typing, and Satchmo's occasional snores and wheezes. It was a homey scene, and Neal still wasn't used to contentment, the idea that this relatively uneventful life was enough for lasting happiness, but he couldn't think of anything he lacked, saving Peter's presence.

After maybe an hour, Elizabeth shut her laptop and nudged Neal's shoulder with her bare toes. "Hey, you."

"Hey." He dropped his book beside him without a second's hesitation and caught her foot. Her toes were short—maybe the least graceful thing about her—and there was a small blister on her heel from her new shoes. Neal pressed his lips to the side of her ankle, and then tugged her closer so he could give her a foot rub. He dug his thumbs into her arch, making her groan with pleasure, and said, "Ask me something."

"Okay." She played with his hair and hmmed thoughtfully, wiggling her toes against his fingertips. "Favorite mode of transport."

"Riverboat," said Neal. "You?"

"Horse," said Elizabeth. "But there's sadly little parking for private horses in the city." She settled in closer behind him and hitched her leg properly over his shoulder so he could keep massaging her foot. He began to stray upward, inside the leg of her suit pants, fingering the firm swell of her calf and feeling faintly breathless and aroused.

"Would you still want me, if it weren't for Peter?" she asked into the silence. "It's okay if the answer's no."

"Elizabeth." How long had she been waiting to ask that? Neal turned and pushed Satchmo aside a little so he could kneel between her knees. "I—Okay, at first I admit it didn't even occur to me. All I could see was Peter, and—I mean, it was obvious how much he loves you. Needs you. You two have the best marriage I've ever seen."

"We're not perfect," said Elizabeth.

"Perfection is boring." He sat back on his heels and looked up at her. "So yeah, I tried to get over Peter because I knew there was no way, and because I couldn't think of a worse thing to do than to hurt you, even if I did stand a chance with him." Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap, right in front of him, fingers trapped and interlocked like his thoughts had been back then.

She was watching him closely. "But you couldn't get over him."

"No. And, well, I'd been attracted to men before, but I'd never loved one. Sometimes I think I'd never really loved anyone." It was hard to say that to Elizabeth, who was so generous with her affection, but she just nodded, neither agreeing nor judging him. "And then I started thinking about you too. About you and Peter together; about you and me. I thought I was losing my mind, that I didn't know what I wanted. I thought, 'Maybe this is what four years in prison has done to me.'"

"Oh honey." She touched his cheek. "Remember the missing Bible, and you did the trick with the cups on the table over there?"

He nodded.

"And I said, 'Why don't you ask the woman out?' and Peter said, 'Do you think she'd say yes?' Remember that?"

"Yeah." He wanted to pull her into his lap, but he leaned into her hand instead. "You said 'yes' as if you were taking an oath."

Her fingers made a path down the side of his neck. "Because she'd be crazy to say no. Anyone would." He shrugged, and she shook her head. "Not because you're beautiful. That doesn't hurt, but it's not that. It's because you're you. Your heart is like a very bright, adorable pit bull." He breathed a laugh, and the corners of her mouth quirked up. "I dig loyalty, baby, and you have it in spades."

The urge to get naked with her, to kiss her all over flared brighter. "Want to go upstairs?"

"In a minute," she said. "Come here." She moved her laptop out of the way and lay sideways on the couch, pulled him down to lie with her. "So what changed?"

Her body was curvy and distracting, and he combed his fingers through her hair, avoiding her gaze. "When you came to my room and asked for my help—you know, getting the tape of Peter from the judge's chambers?" He closed his eyes. "You were so brave and sure. You trusted me more than I deserved."

Her fingers tilted his chin, and when he opened his eyes, she looked right into him. "No, I didn't," she said. "You underestimate me." She kissed him gently and a knot of tension released in his gut.

She was right. He'd been underestimating her all this time, holding back. He was going to stop that now. As soon as he could figure out how.

He lay back and watched the sweet curve of her lips. "A couple of days after that, I had a conversation with June in the middle of the night. We sat on the stairs in the dark for over an hour, and she helped me realize that I wasn't screwed up—I was just screwed. I was in love with both of you. Separately and together—that's how she put it."

"I knew I liked her." Elizabeth leaned into him.

"She's great. I owe her a lot." Neal shifted to lie on his back, half under her. The couch was too short to really be comfortable, but he didn't want to move. "So I thought about running because I didn't know what else to do. I got money, had a plan, everything in place, but before I could do it, Peter worked out what was going on and—you know the rest."

"I might have to send June a gift basket." Elizabeth smoothed the front of his shirt, fiddling with the buttons but not actually undoing them. Neal didn't know if it was a deliberate tease, but it was working.

"She likes cinnamon-scented things." He suppressed a shiver. "It's different without Peter here."

"Separately and together." One of the buttons popped free, and her fingertip whispered across his solar plexus. Eros was in the details. "It's nice having you to myself for a change." She pushed her leg between his thighs and leaned in, and God, he wanted her. It seemed ludicrous that he'd been oblivious for so long. But to his disappointment, she ground to a halt. "If we're going upstairs, I should take Satch out first."

"I'll do it later," Neal offered. Anything to pave the way.

Elizabeth undid another button. "I'll do it. You cooked." She didn't seem in any hurry to move. "Or we could fuck here—"

"Condoms are upstairs," Neal pointed out. "But we don't _need_ them." They'd been using them for intercourse but not oral. He ran his hand down her back to the curve of her ass, moving her up a little, fitting them together, and she moaned low and withdrew her knee. Before he could protest, she settled down on top of him, half-lying, half-straddling him, her weight centered on his erection. She rocked against him and it was torture—almost good, mostly frustrating, too hard, the wrong kind of friction. He kissed her, sucking on her lower lip, trying to be patient, to find the angle, the movement that would make it work, he could do that, but—

"Are you—?" Elizabeth murmured against his neck.

"This isn't really. No." It was awkward to admit, but she raised her head, looking as if he'd done something right.

He was missing something. He shuffled out from under her and sat up. "What?"

"You should complain more." She sat sideways on his lap and put her arm around his neck. "Am I going to regret saying that? You bitch to Peter sometimes, but—I want to know you, okay? You, Neal Caffrey. Even it if means we disagree. Even if we fight sometimes." She put her hand on his face and kissed him, and he fell even further. "Don't worry," she murmured with a small grin. "If it gets annoying, I'll let you know. Trust me."

"I do." He caught her hand and studied it—smaller than his, but not petite and definitely not delicate. "You—We have this weird mix. For you it's the familiar and the new, but for me, it's all new—and I really don't want to mess this up."

"Trust me," she repeated, turning her hand in his, giving his a squeeze. "Peter and I didn't start this without both being sure." She leaned against him. With her sitting on his lap, they were pretty much eye to eye. "Relax. Take a load off. Stay a while."

It really did feel like relaxing, like shrugging off the vigilance and self-control of a con. He nuzzled a line down her neck, but it was hard to get a satisfying angle, and if he was going to ask for what he wanted, he should start now. "I'm done with this stupid couch for tonight," he said. "Come upstairs with me?"

"Yeah." She blew a raspberry against his temple, quick and loud and wet. "I just have to take the goddamned dog out first." Neal laughed, and El wiped his forehead with her hand and kissed him in the exact same spot. "I love you."

He scooped her up in his arms and stood up, held her there for a moment, like a bride. "I know."

 

*

 

They both took Satchmo out. Neal stood behind El on the stoop, his arms around her waist, under the one or two stars that managed to twinkle through the New York haze while Satchmo did his thing, and then El locked up and Neal followed her upstairs, admiring her ass in her dress pants and enjoying the frisson of anticipation.

He pulled her onto the bed with him, kissing her luxuriously, and she finished unbuttoning his shirt and pulled it from his shoulders, her face flushed with desire. Then he got up on one elbow and leaned over her, running his hand along the low neckline of her blouse. Her pulse was racing, he could feel it. He extended his exploration to her breast, through the thin fabric which was as warm as her skin, barely a barrier at all, and her breath hitched. "Oh yeah."

They sat up and undressed each other, Neal's need mounting but held in check, until—

He hesitated. "Wait a sec."

"What?" asked El, naked and quizzical, and he bent to kiss her mouth.

"You looked like you needed to be kissed."

She swatted him—"That's my line!"—and they rolled together, laughing and breathless, and then serious and breathless, and then moving, rocking together. They didn't need a condom—it was more or less what they'd started downstairs, but God, so much better without the boxy arms of the couch closing them in, without clothes, with Elizabeth's body over him, breasts freed, the barely distinguishable textures of her hip and thigh and back under his hands, her rounded slopes and dimples, and the welcoming wet heat of her sliding along his length.

It wasn't as intense as penetration, but Elizabeth's hands and mouth more than compensated. Neal reveled in her choked-off moans, in the stutter of her hips, forward and back, the occasional faint rasp of damp pubic hair against his cock. She was tiring, losing steam, so he moved his hands to her hips and helped, following her lead because he wanted to, because she was glorious and unbelievably sexy, and because, hell, even like this he wasn't sure how long he was going to last.

She rocked harder, grinding her clit against him, the litany of Ohs and exclamations spilling from her, a sign that she was feeling it, the intensity raveling together, peaking higher and higher with each roll of her hips. He could almost see it in her, thrumming through her veins like electricity, tightening her nipples. She shook her hair back impatiently and bent to kiss him, and the change in angle was like a switch being hit.

"God, El, I need—" he gasped, lost for words.

She bit his lip. "Do it." Not asking, just going with it.

He stuck his arm out, pushed off and rolled them over, and began thrusting—not in, but along, just as they had been, only inverted—and his ass flexing, thighs and back working, and her legs angled on either side of him, cradling him, and her arms around his shoulders, the motion and drive, and the way she held him, swearing, coming under him in shudders, loud and glorious and his—it all built into a symphonic tumult, the pleasure of his orgasm secondary to the slowly ebbing urgency of skin on skin.

 

*

 

Later, they cleaned up and brushed their teeth together, as if they'd fallen into a different life where they were married, just the two of them, adrift in a suburban ocean. It wasn't a stage play now—it felt real, and there wasn't any conclusive evidence to the contrary, since Peter had taken his toothbrush and electric shaver with him. Neal opened the bathroom cabinet just to check for proof of Peter's existence, and there was that old prescription for eye drops bearing his name in black and white, and a nearly empty bottle of his aftershave, and the cheap aniseed-flavored mouthwash that Neal and El both refused to use, and a dozen other little details that said Peter.

Neal shook his head, feeling stupid and reassured, and went to bed with Elizabeth knowing their couplehood was transitory, and enjoying it all the more for that.

 

*

 

On Friday night, El was home before Neal. She was making ragout when he came into the kitchen and said, "Hi, honey. How was your day?"

Her eyes widened in amusement. "Oh my God, it's the fifties!" She glanced down at her jeans and t-shirt. "Where's my apron?"

Neal kissed her chastely. "Isn't that how it's done? I figured, when in Rome—"

"Oh Neal." She sighed dramatically. "Didn't you learn _anything_ last night?"

"I learned that you're my favorite. Don't tell Peter." He winked and stole a piece of celery from the chopping board. "Do you have plans tonight? Jones insisted on lending me some DVDs. I think he's hoping to indoctrinate me into law enforcement proper."

El took the box set from him. "Oh, I've heard of this. Dana was trying to convince me to watch it. Do you want to eat in front of the TV?"

"If that's okay." Neal looked doubtfully at the front of the DVD case, which said _The Wire_ in bold letters. "If we don't like it, we can always raid your movie collection. I think I saw _To Catch a Thief_ in there."

El grinned. "You'd think that would be Peter's, but it's mine."

They didn't warm to the show right away, but after the first episode, Neal said, "More, or something else?" and El said, "More," and by halfway through the second episode they were both hooked.

Peter called in the middle of episode three. El scrambled for the remote, which had fallen between the couch cushions, and answered the phone at the same time. "Hi, honey, how's it going? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I, uh, I've got to go. No, all fully clothed—we're just watching TV. Honestly. Do you want—yeah, okay, love you. See you tomorrow."

She handed the phone to Neal.

"Neal, what have you done to Elizabeth?" asked Peter, sounding bemused.

Neal grinned. "Blame Jones."

"I suppose I'll get some kind of explanation tomorrow," said Peter.

"Probably a much longer one than you really want." Neal closed his eyes, taking a second to focus. "How's it going?"

"Fine," said Peter. "Except that I'm scared you've managed to go _Lord of the Flies_ on me in less than two days."

"You worry too much," said Neal, and opened his eyes. "Oh, hang on, El wants the conch." He tossed her the phone.

"Sorry, honey. We both love you, but we're at a critical juncture. See you tomorrow. Gotta go." She hung up.

Neal looked at her reproachfully. "You are a heartless woman. He's all alone out there—in Quantico. Hardly a sparkling metropolis, and—"

"He took three novels and his laptop," said El ruthlessly. "He'll be fine." She pointed the remote at the television. "Ready?"

"Yeah. No. Rewind a bit? Okay, go." And they were off again.

After episode five, Neal let Satch out while El made coffee, and by episode six, Neal was sprawled in the corner of the couch with her in his arms, both of them still glued to the screen.

Around three in the morning, sometime during episode seven or eight—it was hard to keep track—Neal got distracted from the show by the curve of Elizabeth's neck. He kissed the soft skin just below her ear, scraped his teeth across her pulse point, and she snuggled back against him—prompting him to do it again, this time accompanying it with a slow slide of hand from her waist, over her belly to her breast.

She covered his hand, holding it in place. "Stop it. I'm watching."

"I'm calling a time out," said Neal in her ear. "Sex or ice cream—your call."

She twisted around to look at him. "I have to choose?" She wrinkled her forehead and made puppy eyes at him. "Can't I have both?"

"Or both," said Neal promptly. "You can definitely have both." He bent to kiss her, and she fumbled at the back pocket of her jeans and produced a condom.

"Oh! Look what I found."

On the TV, people were plotting and probably shooting each other, but for now, Neal didn't care. "Nice," he said, taking the condom. "I think I've seen one of these before. Let's see if we can figure out how to work it."

"I think it goes somewhere about here." El was digging in Neal's pants now, and the next minute she was kissing him hard, with the kind of concentration that only love and sleep deprivation could bring, and Neal had gone from idle sensuousness to undeniable desire.

They fucked in a tangle of clothes and remote controls, with profanity in the background and Satchmo asleep on his rug in the corner, moving easily together, kissing the whole time. It was the kind of casual tenderness that Neal's life had sorely lacked over the last five or so years, and when they were done, lying tired, sated and entwined, he buried his face in her hair and said her name.

She moved her head, burrowing into him, and he wondered if she was falling asleep, but a few minutes later she was up again, disposing of the condom and going for ice cream—"Chocolate, maple and walnut, or French vanilla?"—and then they rewound the DVD to where Neal had stopped paying attention, and El pressed Play.

When they got to episode nine and Neal was starting to feel like he was on a first name basis with half of Baltimore, El paused the opening credits and said, "I can't keep my eyes open."

"Maybe we should call it a night," said Neal around a yawn. "God, it's four in the morning. My neck is going to hate me tomorrow."

"Today," said El. "I'm making coffee. Come on, we've got this far. Five more episodes and then you can sleep."

"Promises, promises," said Neal, but he surrendered to the inevitable. "This thing had better have a happy ending." He followed El to the kitchen and got mugs and creamer out while she put the coffee on.

"It had better have an ending, period," said El. "I'm pretty sure there are two or three more seasons after this, from what Dana was saying."

"We should have Dana over." Neal propped himself against the counter. "We can talk about _The Wire_ all night until Peter disowns us."

"Are you kidding? Peter is watching this show, if I have to tie him to a chair and threaten to blow his motherfucking head off." El put her hands on her hips and arched her back, stretching.

"I don't doubt you for a second," said Neal, "but now I'm all distracted by the idea of Peter tied to a chair. Does he have to be wearing clothes?" He was joking, but El wasn't listening. She had a tired, sad look on her face that seemed to have come from nowhere. Neal put his arms around her. "Hey, what is it? Is it Peter? He'll be home tomorrow—in about twelve hours, in fact."

"It's nothing." She shook her head. "It's not Peter."

"El?" Neal made her look at him until she cracked.

"Having Dana over," she said. "I wish you didn't have to be a secret."

He pulled her even closer, hugged her tighter. "I know." He hadn't really thought about the cost to Elizabeth of keeping their relationship off the record. The risks and difficulties for Peter were obvious, and for Neal, discretion was a way of life, but El's friendships were close, built on trust and confidences. It wasn't fair that she couldn't be open about the important things in her life. "I'm sorry."

"It's really not your fault." She clung to him for a minute, then took a deep breath and went to pour the coffee. "Anyway, we can still have her over—we'll just have to be careful."

She sounded determinedly cheerful, so Neal went with it, but in the middle of the last episode of the set, at nearly nine in the morning with sunlight glowing at the edges of the curtains and Satchmo sitting hopefully by the back door, she paused the DVD mid-scene and said, "I hate your tracker."

"What?" Neal was tired, his head full of cops and drug dealers. It took him a moment to catch up.

"I hate that you have to wear it," said El. "I hate being reminded you spent four years of your life in prison. I wish I could hack it or cut it off you."

They were side-by-side on the couch, and Neal hitched his knee up and turned to face her. "It's not like I didn't earn it."

It was strange to be defending the perpetual thorn in his side, but she was clearly upset.

"I don't care!" She fisted her hands in his shirt. "I hate it."

He pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. "It brought me to you, okay?" he said. "It's how I found you, Elizabeth. If it wasn't for this stupid piece of plastic, I'd still be in jail. We never would have met." He stroked her hair. "It's worth it."

The tension leached from her body, and she sighed hugely. "I know. I just—I've been wanting to say that for a really long time."

"Okay." They held each other, listening to the Saturday traffic out in the street. After a while, Neal said, "Okay?"

"Yeah." Her voice was muffled, but she sounded better. "Let's finish this." She reached for the remote.

 

*

 

They were eating breakfast in their robes when Peter got home just after four in the afternoon. He dropped his coat on the armchair, came through to the dining room and eyed the boxes of cereal. "Should I ask?"

"We stayed up all night watching TV, eating ice cream and having sex," said Neal. "You should have been here."

"If he'd been here, we'd have been stuck in the middle of episode three, discussing procedure until two in the morning," said El with a grin. She got up and gave Peter a hug. "Hi, honey. How was fucking Quantico?"

"I—" Peter blinked.

Neal hid a grin. "You kiss your husband with that mouth?"

El pulled Peter down for a kiss. "Every chance I get." She patted his chest. "It's okay. I'm going to make you watch it too—then you'll understand."

Neal moved in, eager for his own greeting, a lingering press of lips that sent heat coursing down his spine. "Hi."

"Hi." Peter's smile was inviting, and Neal had never been one to turn down an invitation that appealing.

"You know," he said, as innocently as he could, "I really think El and I didn't spend enough time in bed last night. Isn't there some kind of a quota system we're supposed to meet? I heard Brooklyn had brought that in, as part of their Respectable Households Management Plan."

El snickered, but she seemed equally willing to abandon her breakfast. She raised her eyebrows at Peter. "Honey, I think we could use your help with that. What do you say?"

Peter looked from her to Neal and back again, the crinkles beside his eyes deepening. "Well, if there's a quota system—"

"There is," said Neal positively.

"—then I suppose it's my duty to help you meet your obliga—" The rest of his words were lost, as Neal and El kissed him again, one after the other, and Neal shepherded them all toward the stairs.

 

END


End file.
